Saving Sabiħ
by EvadingxEloquence
Summary: Greg Sanders is in a bad place. The thread of his life is unraveling, and he has no way to stop it. That is, until the very person he thought could only hurt him stepped in to help. Slash. Rated for a reason.
1. Ilbidu: istejjer diqa

My first story. I've been meaning to write for a while, about this pairing and that plotline and this show and that book... But it never really clicked. But now I'm inspired, ready, and willing. Reviews would be appreciated.

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI. Nor do I own the characters within.

_________________________________

The lights around him blurred, fuzzed over, changed colors... Christ, everything was spinning. But wasn't that just how he wanted it?

Greg had had another dream. Gone home after a particularly rough case, took a nap... And had another dream. So here he was, drunk and shivering, slumped on a barstool, ignoring the people and trying to be fascinated by the whirling lights, plethora of sounds... But all his senses took in was the stench of sweat and alcohol on the breath of a multitude of drunken whores, and it made him sick. The lights gave another whirl, and so did he stomach, and he found himself stumbling and staggering across the room toward the porcelain goddess of salvation.

_____________________________

Perhaps the only good thing about drinking hard and fast was that it was easy to get rid of before it did the worst of its damage. God only knew how much money he'd blown on then-puked drinks that would get him drunk without making him gag, sweet and fruity and _fag drinks_ (NO.)

He stopped short in the darkened sideroad, anger welling up inside him. That was one of the reasons he was so docile in his fight against himself when it came to the bar- there were too many reasons to drink. And that lack of dignity was just another, brought to the surface by another fucking trigger, dug deeper by his lack of a foothold to drag himself out.

He knew the thought process behind it through and through, but it was still too easy to get sucked in, and weak as he was at this point...

He shook the thought from his mind, weary and defeated, and trudged on as if through a river of remorse.

____________________________

Three hours of pacing around one's apartment on an empty stomach, throat full of the sting of vomit and alcohol, occasionally gulping and sputtering at a carton of orange juice was hardly an ideal Saturday night. With an even more defeated gaze than before, he glanced around his woefull apartment, and thought just how wonderfully it mirrored his mind right now: cluttered, disorganized, trashed... With a dull grey cast to it, berift of life and light.

He needed out.

To the lab.

____________________________

He'd done what little paperwork was available for him to do, cleaned some equiptment, tidied the lockerrooms... And had received more than his fair share of strange glances from his coworkers. A few questions about his being there were all he got; he figured the look on his face was just about enough.

"This is ridiculous," he slurred, almost wishing for sleep, but terrified to even try. Exhaustion and alcohol were a bad combination, no matter if you threw up most of the latter. Scrubbing his palm across his face, he tottered into the bathroom, entered a stall, locked the door, and slid down the wall. "Ridiculous." Even his voice, he thought, sounded ridiculous. This was an all-time low.

The thought, paired with sleep deprivation, snapped something within him, and tears came, hot and fast and _Jesus, you stupid fuck, you're crying. Again. What the living CHRIST are you doing?_ The internal monologue of beratement continued, and Greg didn't hear the door quietly sliding open. He didn't hear the soft pat of footsteps across the tiled floor, nor the opening of the stall next to him. What he did hear was a voice all too familiar, obviously at ground-level, head under the stall wall. "Jesus, Greg..."

"Go," Greg sniffled. He didn't want to see that face. Not now. He kept his hands before his face, his forehead on his knees, tears pooling in the creases of the grout below him.  
And, being the beautiful person he was, Nick left.

_____________________________

Greg had known how he felt about Nick for a while. It was long enough, he figured, for it to have grown to... Well, whatever it had become. Infatuation and obsession were too strong, love too personal and connected. Adoration too... Too soft. It simply was what it was.

_Why do I push him away?_

_Because I can't have him see me like this._

_But he would want to, he would want to help..._

_But he can't see me like this._

_You idiot, you need help._

_But I won't let him see me like this._

_That doesn't much matter now. He's seen it. Christ, he's not stupid or ignorant. That's what you l.. What you can't get enough of. He's so perfec..._

_Shut up._

The two-sided banter drove him half insane, and he clutched at the hair on the sides of his head as the minutes passed, silent tears dripping. How long had passed since he had walked in and more than likely confirmed what he already knew? An hour? And a half? Greg would have liked to say he didn't care.

For the umpteenth time, he compartmentalized his thoughts, listed, controlled what he knew to make up for what he couldn't.

_Things gone wrong._

_James kid._

_Parents freakout._

_Rent due._

_Grissom knows._

_Psych eval in two days. Won't pass._

_And Nick. Lack thereof._

He moaned softly, and missed the sound of the door opening again. This time the voice was higher up, muffled, but firmer. "Open up."

He hated being weak.

He hated being powerless to that voice.

But he was both.

Click.

The door swung outward, he stepped inward, and the door closed once more. Greg never raised his eyes. He scooted closer to the toilet, feeling the grit on the floor beneath the seat of his pants as he made room.

Nick slid down the wall with ease, slowly, and came to rest beside him.

They sat in silence for perhaps two full minutes, the stillness only broken once by a half-hearted sniffle and Greg wiping another tear, then resuming his arms-crossed, head-between-the-knees position.

Then he felt a warm hand on his back. "You can talk to me." The words didn't carry as much as Greg had hoped they would. The biggest wave that hit him was not relief, but a gut-wrenching fear that made him nauseous all over again. He choked the heaving of his stomach back down and shook his head wearily.

"Wouldn't make you a coward or weak." That was another thing about that man; he knew precisely what to say, minus the Jordan Almond effect. No sugar coating, but still easy enough to swallow without it.

"Can't," he managed to choke out, coughing up tear-and-allergy-induced phlegm and spitting it into the toilet. He resumed his position.

"Bullshit, Sanders."

The silence returned. It wasn't as awkward as he imagined it would be. Rather, it was a comfortable agreement that Nick was right, and this was ridiculous, but it had its reasons all the same.

"Get up. We're going." Greg didn't fight back, simply stared at the floor as he took the hand that was offered, a strong arm behind it pulling his limp body onto his feet. His knees and frontal thighs ached, and his legs shook as he walked, but he followed the backs of Nick Stokes' heels through a hushed lab and quiet parking lot, stepped into the truck, and stared at the mat beneath his feet as the purr of machinery lulled him somewhat.

"It's a lot," he muttered as they sat at a red light.  
"I'm sure it is."

His tone wasn't sarcastic. It was simply truthful, accepting. Nothing more.

No more was said on the ride to Nick's apartment.

________________________________________

Wordlessness reigned as they stepped into the apartment. Nick pulled a frozen dinner apiece from the freezer and threw one in the microwave while Greg sat on the couch, staring at his feet.

Nick soon joined him, sitting in a chair opposite him. Greg stared at Nick's feet instead of his own.

"I'm not going to lie to you. I'm worried about you, Greg. Quite a bit." His voice was soft, but firm and urgent. Greg felt himself soften slightly.  
"I don't want you to worry." It was the simple truth.

"Then let the worry stop, Greg."  
After a few moments of pondering, Greg raised his eyes from Nick's shoes, looked him square in the eye, and spoke slowly, steadily, and softly.

"You want to know," he stated more than asked. "I'm hurting. Copiously. It's repulsive how I'm dealing with it, and I'm ashamed. I've been falling apart. I'm a big boy, and I'm responsible for myself and my actions, and I fucked up, and now I'm afraid of getting on the right track."

He didn't look down. He wouldn't allow himself that dismal luxury. He felt a speck of pride glowing in the abyss.

"You want a handhold?"

"Don't tease me."  
"I wasn't."

Greg paused, pondered the potential of the statement.  
"Yes. Stay here. Get yourself on your feet."

Greg opened his mouth to speak, stopped short, and stayed gawping for a few moments as it sank in. He was saved by the beeping of the microwave, and he watched Nick as he slowly rose and strode into the kitchen to continue fixing the food. If relief could be sold, Sanders would have bought temporary stock.


	2. Nar dubbien u lverità

I am, to all of you who have story alerted or favorited this... It has taken me forever and a fucking year to get this chapter out. I experienced some distinctly traumatic things in my personal life, and it took a tremendous toll.

I am, however, back.

I plan on being prompt.

Thank you to CrystallineSolid and DrowningInTheAshes (rather especially to her, as she was the biggest reason for my return post-crises.) for their messages and encouragement,

thank you to QueenOfTheUniverse, Lily G, and CrystallineSolid (once again) for the reviews,

and thank you to all who added me. It's a wonderful thing to get an email saying someone else enjoyed my work /that/ much.

It means a lot.

Reviews and messages would be appreciated, once again. They are the driving force behind this series.

I love you all.

Disclaimer: Though I can wish, I don't own CSI or any of the characters.

___________________________________________--___________________________________________

That damn song was going to drive him insane. All he could see now was wave after wave of little glowing lights dancing around him as he stood, feeling naked, in what he assumed was a field. Everything was fuzzy and spinning, but... He didn't mind. The calmness washed over him like a sheet of rain, coating him, drenching him, spilling into him, and he walked, walking, going going but what's there doesn't matter one step walking foot in front of foot no ground

And Greg realized that, in his dream, he had walked straight off a cliff into a cloud of those swirling lights, and he began to whimper as the air sailed past him, thousand of those tiny lights flipping by at mach speed. He stared up at the sky, arms and legs falling up, falling back-down to the ground below as stars and bugs twinkled above him, and he felt the tears falling like little flaming daggers, felt them fall down his face, then saw them fly back up before him... And then he began to shriek like a banshee as he spun over and saw the ground coming fast, so fast, and that voice took him like God, caressed him as he could see the individual tufts of grass in the field below, and

"Greg!"

he closed his eyes and felt the voice more than heard it as he waited for impact, and then he felt...

...Arms.

"Greg, JESUS Greg..."

Greg Sanders slowly opened his eyes, thick lashes fluttering apart, thwarted at first by the vacuum effect of tears matting them together. "N.. Nick... I fell..." The tears flowed hard and fast and hot and painful, and he stared up into the watery reflection of that strong face.

Nick creased his brow a little and wiped a stream of tears from Greg's cheek. "You're okay now. You're awake. It was a bad dream, Greg. Just a bad dream."

The reality of this washed over the frightened man, and though he felt it ought to relieve him, it didn't. It was just dull monotone over his fright and misery. "I... I fell off a cliff, and there were... Bugs, lightning bugs, and I was falling, and..." He struggled through it, and his voice died at the end as he slowly and shakily sat up on Nick's sofa, seeing the man beside him. Embarrassment crept up his spine and prickled the hairs at the back of his neck as he hastily wiped his red, puffy eyes and sniffled furiously.

"Man, it doesn't matter what happened. What matters is that you're here, on solid ground, and you're okay now."

Greg decided against finishing his statement: that he was falling, and then he was caught in strong, warm, loving arms belonging to that omniscient voice. Conveniently, that occured just as Nick had swept him up to awaken him.

"Th...Thank you," he murmured, staring, as had become his perpetual habit around this creature of perfection, at his feet (despite the blanket over them).

"That's what a handhold does- gives you something solid to wake you up." Those kind eyes twinkled, softened as the worry drained from them, turning like dry ice from a solid, hard and harsh, into a wispy nothing and floating away.

_____________________________________________

"Bacon or sausage? I figured I'd make a real breakfast before we went to the lab." Simultaneously rubbing an eye and satiating an itch through the fabric of his boxers proved too much for a bleary-eyed Sanders, who managed to scratch his eyelid and cringe in pain before Nick's ultimatum sunk in.

"Bacon?"

It was absolutely and thoroughly a question, though the older man blessedly took it as an answer as well, proof of the groggy younger's curiosity in the preferred option. Greg has just nearly forgotten what homecooked bacon was.

Sitting down to a sunnily-lit table, the shock was welcomed as he woke up to the first real breakfast setting he'd seen in over three years. A place setting sat before him, with real utensils and an actual plate. A real glass already filled with orange juice sat behind that, with a hot pot of coffee sitting in the center of the table. The scent of fresh-brewed could have made the malnurished soul faint on the spot, had Nick not come with the food.

He stared down at the mountain before him on the tray. Eggs and pancakes and bacon and corned beef hash and a hash brown and a bagel and oatmeal and fruit (Three kinds in a salad- apple, peach, and raspberry) and yogurt seemed to smile up at him, the scents almost making his head throb. "You did.. All this? For me?" Sounding like a kid in a candy shop, a real, true smile, eyes and all, covered his face as he looked up to Nick with utter reverence. "I figured you could use it," was the only response he got. He gave no rebuttle, simply grinned, picked up his fork, and devoured the whole damn repast.

____________________________________________

For a moment, it was like another dream. This one was much more pleasant, a cornucopia of lovely feelings swimming in him as he sat, digesting his gargantuan meal happily, a childlike smile on his face, now bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Nick was just sedate to know he was no longer crying and shaking as he'd been last night.

"You go take a shower. I'll put these dishes away. We gotta get going." Nick shook his head as Greg stood, stretched, patted a fll tummy and then patted his shoulder.

"Thanks, Nick. I.. I'll pay you back. I promise."

Greg's voice wavered on the edge of that solemn sadness that twisted Stokes' heart.

"You don't need t-"

"I'm going to."

The silence was deafening, but not awkward or heavy. Simply meaningful.

"Let's get you up the rock wall first, one handhold at a time."

Greg felt tears well up behind his eyes once again, and squeezed Nick's shoulder once before turning and briskly trotting to the bathroom.

____________________________________________

As the steam swirled around him and bubbles cascaded to the floor, it was as if layer after layer of worry-sludge melted away, taking with it part of the heavy misery that churned in him. It wouldn't last long, he knew, but that wasn't important. Hardly. He had a handhold, and as long as he didn't screw up, it wouldn't let his hand slip.

Meanwhile, Nick hummed contentedly, loading dish after dish into the dishwasher, like the arm of a phonograph making the same journey around the disk time after time during its working life. It was mindless, letting his thoughts sojourn to worlds unknown, lands of fantasy, the realm of What If. What if he decided to find a place of his own? What if he got a girlfriend? What if he... didn't? The possibilities of the future swirled throught Nick's head like fireflies, a random maelstrom of beautiful chaos.

____________________________________________

The truck eased into the parking spot in what felt like a few seconds. Nick had cracked joked the whole way there, patted his shoulder, poked fun at various people (His Hodges impressions were simply priceless...), played exceedingly loud music... Greg's spirits couldn't have been higher. He nearly skipped his way to the lab while everyone looked on, Nick shooting shrugs and smiles at all who gave a questioning glance and a raised brow.

The day passed relatively well. Despite having the nagging need to avoid the bathroom, nothing seemed to get him down. Not the list of nine cases on which his DNA findings were top-priority urgent. Not the accumulating paperwork he had to do. Not Eckley's constant checking in on the underdog. Not even the stench of rot when he opened the fridge to find another of Grissom's experiments. It appeared as though he was simply infallible.

This, of course, planted a seemingly permanent smile on Nick's face. More than a few comments were made. From Grissom's plain, "Smiles abound," in passing to Sarah's, "Awful happy to be workin' a double homicide aren't we?", Nick took everything in stride.

It was a good day.

______________________________________________

1AM was a miserable hour to head home at, especially with a commute equivalent to running the mile for a four-legged ant. Despite being exhausted and drained, neither of the men in the truck truly seemed to mind. That is, until Nick began to speak ten minutes in.

"Greg, I want to know why you're this way."

"Because I had a fabulous day, that's why," he chittered.

"You know damn well what I'm talking about."

The silence roared in Sanders' ears and tore at his chest.

"I told you, Nick. It's... A lot."

"We have time."

"And I'll need more."

"Tell me what you can."

Another pause.

"I'm sick of hiding. Sick of being judged. Sick of hurting. Sick of being alone."  
The silence was heavy and leaden as Nick drove, eyes forward, mouth set in thought, brow creased. "It's somewhere to start."

Once again the silence was oppressive.

"But you're not alone anymore."  
Those words alone could have saved Greg from any fall.


	3. ħolm ħażina

Well, guys, I'm back again. Nearly two full years later, I'm back. I half-wonder if any of the old fans will be back to read, but I'm giving it a good old college try and hoping for the best.

Thank you, so, so much to all those who reviewed. Honestly, what brought me back... I came to read a few fanfictions, then go do my laundry. That led to me favoriting a story, which required me to log in. Which led me to look at the only story I'd ever published. Which led to reading the reviews. Which led to the tearful realization that, despite the load I've carried for years, I still have some creativity left, and I missed this story.

I'll make it happen.

And with any luck, I'll have another one posted VERY soon. Like, maybe in a few hours. A couple days at the latest. I owe you several chapters.

DISCLAIMER: blah blah blah you know the drill.

* * *

The rest of the drive home had been in a slightly chilling, though not hard to swallow by any means. Wave after wave of goosebumps had risen under the fabric of Greg's clothing as it sank in again and again.

_He really does care. He doesn't mind that I'm a wreck...or at least, he's willing to deal with it. He really does want to help..._

This was such a novel concept, something so foreign in its lack of malignancy, that Greg's lips kept twitching up ever so slightly into a fraction of a smile despite the dense silence that swirled about the truck's cab.

They had arrived back at Nick's at an obscenely wee hour of the morning. Sanders, under orders from his dark-haired angel, had been in a trance-like state as he quickly tapped out an email to his landlord, explaining that he'd be vacating the premises shortly, that he would send her a check for the last month's rent, but that he would not be able to continue living there, that he had fallen on hard times. She'd always been an agreeable enough sort of woman, a rotund lady bordering on the spry side of elderly, with sterling hair and bright, twinkling chocolate eyes that were at once warm and stern. The two men had agreed over bottles of seasonally-themed beer that it would be worth canceling his rent. In his exhaustedly content state, the full course of implications of this action, this suggestion, didn't quite occur to him. It wasn't until he was dancing on the edge of blissful, warm sleep that the thought pressed into his consciousness with an almost belligerent clarity.

_If I'm canceling, that means I'm not paying next month's rent. But I haven't found another place, can't move in mid-month in most places, and... _

Just before his mind sank back into a more beautiful place, he realized with a strange, dim satisfaction that this implied he would be staying with Nick for a month.

_At least,_ he thought with a twitch-hint of a smile, and he was asleep.

* * *

They were all staring at him. He was being marched around the lab, something sharp and biting jabbing him in the back, prodding him forward, like

_some sick cattle some freak show side show come look at him ladies and gentlemen_

a prisoner, and he shuffled, his eyes brimming with tears that, blessedly, were not felt, though he vaguely thought they ought to be burning, hissing like boiling water through his eyes, into his tear ducts, down his face in rivulets, fresh hot magma burning tracks he knew everyone would see

_everyone's looking Greggie lookit everyone stare_

down his cheeks. All their faces... He knew them all, all people he loved indeed in his own way, and they were judging. Their gazes were horrifyingly hateful, and all at once the faces swam together like mannequin blanks, a sea of faceless bodies sitting at desks, standing at tables, all facing him, noq indistinguishable, and he was being pushed faster, faster, faster, now running, and still that jabbing hurried him faster still, and he was sobbing, heaving, braying out wild, angry, hurt cries, and he knew why they were judging. They knew. They knew every problem,

_( THE GAY THE GAY THE G)_

and they hated him for it.

He rushed along down the corridor, and now it wasn't the lab at all. It was just a hallway that seemed absolutely endless, and yet the door at the end, glowing light spilling from around the frame, rushed at him as though it, too, was being pushed, and he tried to slow down, because he knew what was behind that door. He knew what would happen: he would get so close, and it would open, and he would see behind it something that would shatter his mind, because he knew that door, and he knew who was behind it, and he knew, he knew he knew heknewheknewhe

* * *

woke up. Greg Sanders woke up. He sat bolt upright, almost sending himself tumbling off the couch in Nick's apartment. Looking behind him, he saw the jabbing pain had been from an errant zipper pull sticking up from a dislodged cushion. But still, that door... And with the dream fresh in his mind, he pulled himself to his feet, his body trembling such that he felt like he was made of glass. He was so sure that, had someone struck him right then, he would have shattered like delicate glass. Lower lip quivering, he padded in nothing but flannel pajama pants across the living room. Down the hallway he went, and there it was. That door. He stared at it, his feet sinking into the thick, lovely carpet, his body shaking and shivering, his eyes wide and overbright and watery, and he whimpered softly. The tears came, and that same feeling of sick dread flooded him, and he was suddenly sure that he was going to implode, his own body sucking back in to a point just behind and slightly below his sternum, until he was nothing. One foot, almost of its own accord, lifted rom the carpet and replaced itself delicately about a foot in front of the other. Hardly believing he was moving, Greg continued toward the door, his pace so agonizingly slow and deliberate, he was almost aware of every muscle fiber that moved. After a small eternity, his fingers, like those of some disembodied hand in a movie, brushed against the metal knob, and an achingly cool burst tore its way up the nerves of his arm. He shivered again, grasped the cold metal, and turned. The door slid open soundlessly, and there he was. Lying on his side, the visible part of his face betraying a beautifully serene expression, he looked like perhaps the most perfect thing in the entire world. Greg's breath caught in his chest, hitched in his throat, and he had to force himself to breathe normally, pulling in shaky trails of air, one after another, in a laborious pattern. After an indeterminate amount of time that could have been a minute or an hour, Nick stirred slightly. Greg hiccuped, swallowing a little gasp, and Nick's eyes blearily opened. "G...reg?" he questioned.

"I... bad... d.. d.. dr..."

Nick just smiled softly and slowly sat up, patting the bed beside him. "Y-y-yaaaah," he yawned, and smiled some more. "You keep having bad dreams, huh, man?"

Greg felt as if he was floating his way to the bed. In bed. With Nick. Close to him. His warmth... The thought alone brought a ferocious chill up his spine and he shivered again, then sat down. The bed was, as expected, warm with the heat of Nick's body. The notion that the apple of his eye, his secret beloved, had given off the warmth that now soothed him... He scooted a little closer, tucked his knees up to his chin, and nodded.  
"Bad dreams," he repeated, not daring to look into those deep brown eyes. He was almost ashamed at having come in here, having woken him up for his own insecurities, and deep inside, his own wants.

They sat in silence for a little while, and Nick gently placed a hand on the blond's shoulder, squeezing a wordless reassurance. He only spoke after a long, heavy, pregnant pause. "If it's bad enough to be giving you dreams like this, Greg," he murmured, his voice low and soft, "it's probably best not to bottle it up." Nothing else needed to be said, because the other man so thoroughly understood his tone, his inflection. After another long silence, Greg responded. "I know... I know you want to help, Nick." Biting his lower lip to prevent its inevitably quiver, he looked up and sideways, his light brown eyes catching the darker ones focused on him. "And... just... Just the fact that you _do_ want to help _does_ help," he added. "The fact that _you_ want to help means so, so much..." His voice softened and then trailed off as he spoke. The emphasis on 'you' was so soft and subtle, he almost didn't realize he'd used it, but something in the glint of Nick's eye, something in the slight change of his expression told Greg that he had, in fact, heard it. This caused a twist of anxiety to well up in his gut, and he hoped somewhat frantically that Nick only imagined he meant it in a 'you're my hero' kind of way.

Nick studied him carefully for a moment, and then his arms were around him, the man's hand on the back of his head, pulling him close. "Whatever you've been through," he murmured into the side of Greg's neck, "it must be hell. Whatever you're _going_ through. I'm just glad I can help you, Greg. I just wish I could do more." His voice was even lower, gruffer, hoarser. He almost sounded... God, he almost sounded on the verge of tears. Greg just held him fiercely, holding back shaking sobs.

_You could kiss me, Nick_, he thought. _That would help. Lying with you would help. If you would call me yours, I would never cry again, I think. I think I think I think. I think too much, _he mused, and let himself melt into his consciousness, into the here and now where he shivered in the grasp of his favorite person in the world. For how long had they been friends? And as far back as he could remember, there had been at least some sort of adoration that, in the past few months, had accumulated and fermented, stronger now than ever, into a power that wasn't quite describable, that always evaded words. For now, though, Greg was content to sit here in his arms for a while, secure in the knowledge that Nick at least cared, and caring meant sharing.

With a shuddering sigh, Greg began to speak into Nick's neck and shoulder, his voice soft and wavering, carrying the hurt of the past and present in his words.


	4. Rivelazzjonijiet, tuffieħ ħelu

Hey, guys! I promised, and so shall I deliver. I made damn sure I had to keep going, and it worked. Oh, the cliffhangers. :)

So, here's another chapter. Also- Let me know if there's something you guys would like to see added in here. I'm plenty full of ideas, but I do want to please my audience. Twists you want to see, specific scene setups... Whatever, just let me know.

I was also thinking of doing a quick one-shot between them. FIRST PERSON TO TELL ME A TWIST THEY REALLY WANT GETS THE DEDICATION!

And, as always, a HUGE shout-out to DrowningInTheAshes. She's a constant support and inspiration, and a solid part of the reason why I came back. 3

This chapter is a little longer than usual as a gift to her. WE'RE HOLDING OUT FOR BETTER FLUFF OPPORTUNITIES.

I love you all, you wonderful readers. Enjoy.

Nick nodded softly into Greg's shoulder, accepting the flow of words as one might accept the trickle-flow of warm water down one's back.

"I'm utterly a fuckup." There was a pause. The spout sputtered, the water stuck behind a bubble of shame.  
"I feel incapable of doing things right. The work part is the least of it... I mean, I can usually get back up when I get pushed down at work. It's expected. I'm okay with that. I'm gettin' there... With you behind me. You've always been so good to me..." His voice faded out and Nick could feel, or at least he thought he could (later he would wonder if his mind had conjured the whole thing, and a pleasant shiver ran through him, though he couldn't pinpoint the cause) feel Greg's arms tighten around him for just a moment.  
"I just feel like I'm letting people down. I feel like I keep... falling short of what people want, not meeting expectations over and over. And I hate that feeling," he murmured, his arms still around Nick and Nick's around him. He was fairly sure he wouldn't have been able to support himself if they hadn't been. The words pulled the strength out of him, slowly and sadly.  
"I keep feeling like I'm falling," he whispered. "And I can't tell when impact is, but I see frowning faces going by all the time. Everyone from work, but... My family, too. I even feel like people I barely know, like the quiet girl who li... used to live next door to me, judge me poorly. And I let them down all the time, in everything, in work, in how I act, in where I'm at in my life... And in who I am." These last few words were barely audible, but each one dragged a ripping pain of anxiety through Greg's chest.

_Who I am. Gay I am. Gay, gay, gay, gay..._

Nick sat, just holding him lightly for a moment, then pulled away very slowly. Greg could have cried, feeling something catastrophic was coming, how bad of a fuckup must he look like, oh god Nick was going to kick him out, Nick had IT figured out, he was going to hate him or did already and

and then Nick kept holding his shoulders, trying to look him in the eye. His voice was like cool, dark silk as he spoke. "You're a good man, Greg. You try damned hard, and people see that. Everyone at the lab loves you." Greg's heart fluttered at the word 'love'. "I mean, I know I do." Greg's heart nearly stopped _entirely_ at this point. "You're funny, and smart, and quirky as all else. Hell, man, people are _jealous_ of you. You're so... Interesting. Dynamic. And you handle everything like a champ. You're not perfect, and you're not a nitpick old-timer. No one expects you to be. You're just amazing in for the position you're in. I dunno if you see it, bud, but you're pretty special. You're standing inside the frame, trying to see the big picture. You've just gotta trust me, Greg, because I'm standing outside it, and what I see inside?" His eyebrows knit in kind, almost... No, it wasn't a loving look... Couldn't be. "I see a guy who I'm lucky to know. A guy who needs a little help to see that, and to feel that. And I just want to help. I just want you to trust me enough to let me help."

Tears slid silently down Greg's face. They weren't the molten, dagger-like tears of misery or embarassment. They were tears of wonder, of expectations blown wide open to reveal some glittering place he'd never been before. He'd never known anyone was jealous of him. He'd never seen anyone appreciate him. It was so intangible, tiny glances and gestures lost in the frantic chaos that often enveloped the lab, that were often cautiously hidden as someone observed him from afar. That Nick would say these things to him, that Nick himself, the angel, the beautiful, infallible, precious creature who held his shoulders and grounded him to something more solid-feeling than even the earth itself right now, that Nick would say that he... loved him?

It almost seemed worthwhile.

"Of course I trust you," he murmured. "I'd trust you with anything."

Nick's eyes positively sparkled in the faint, barely-lit dimness of his bedroom, and his smile trembled. Greg looked at him in astonishment. He couldn't be... Over him? Nick? In tears?

"I'm just sorry," Nick ventured, his voice wavering only a little, "that you feel like you do. But it means a lot..." He almost breathed the last word, then paused. "It means a lot that you trust me, Greg. I won't let you down."

The gentle kindness in his words, the power they held, the implications and the maybes and what-ifs swirled inside him, some black and some golden, a twisting maelstrom that overwhelmed him, and he simply wrapped his arms around Nick. He needed to be grounded again as the tears flowed faster, hotter, and he shivered some more. Nick just hugged him back, and his senses were filled with him, the scent of him, the feel of his hard, solid warmth... And Greg was vaguely aware of the softness of the mattress against his side, halfway thought they must be lying down now. The words "Sleep well, Greg," floated through his suddenly vacant mind, and he obeyed, slipping into a sleep so deep that the dreams were kept at bay.

The next morning met him with dull, grey light shafting in through the window. His eyes opened, and for a brief moment, he panicked, unaware of his surroundings and frightened. Then it hit him: he was in Nick's bed. The night before came back in a tornado of wild chaos, tearing through his thoughts and body like a horrible twister, and all at once, left him with equal violence, tearing away and leaving him numbly overwhelmed. He cleared his head the only way he could: asking questions. The only one that really made any sense to ask in his state was 'Where's Nick?' The bed was strangely cool, compared to his dim memories of last night, of the comforting warmth, of those arms... But he wasn't here now. The arms, and the warmth, were gone. _I should probably get up and go find him,_ Greg mused, but he paused, taking a moment to breathe deeply the thick, masculine scent of Nick left on the sheets. Then he stretched and rolled out of bed, cautiously peered around the doorframe, and padded out to the kitchen.

"Morning, sunshine," Nick teased. "Guess you slept well. It's almost one."

Greg could only stare, gawping and wide-eyed, as Nick smiled teasingly at him. Had he really slept that long? And that well? How long had it been since he had slept that long without nightmares plaguing him?

"Cat got your tongue, I guess. Coffee?" He passed a cup across the small kitchen table to the sleepy blond, sipping his own. The rich smell of black coffee wafted around the kitchen, caressing his caffeine-deprived senses, and he gladly took the warm mug, wrapping his hands around it and drinking deeply. The strong bite of black bitterness was welcome and left him significantly more wakeful than before. Sitting, he cracked his neck and grinned gratefully up and across at his provider.

"So... Whaddya wanna do today?" Greg was surprised, barely aware the words had actually left his lips. "Grissom did say he'd throw us out on our behinds if we showed up for work at all today after the 18-hour stint..."

Nick looked thoughtfully into his mug, and Greg tried to pretend (successfully, he mused) to be nonchalant, his coffee saving him from awkwardly staring at his companion in expectation.  
"I dunno," Nick mumbled into his daily dose of caffeine. "I have a couple errands to run, actually. Trip to the bank, groceries, get my emissions tested. Other than that, I'd be content to stay in and cook, watch some movies, maybe. You mind?"

The thought of spending the day with him, errands and all, was exhaulting. "I'd be fine with that." A thought occured to him just then, breaking through his joy and turning them solemn. "Actually... If it wouldn't be too much of a problem, I'd like to stop by my place? Grab a few things. I should probably schedule a day for a U-Haul and book a storage space..." he mused softly. Nick just nodded. It was a perfectly normal conversation, perhaps the first they'd had in a long while. The first one that didn't have to do with work (read: dead people) or Greg (read: his dysfunctions). It was light, it was natural, it was... Normal. It was right. It _felt _ right.

They ate a nice breakfast, Greg praising Nick's cooking skills as Nick flipped pancakes high into the air and onto a plate, showing off with just a little more gusto than entirely necessary. Greg was rapt. Then each man showered in turn, Greg first, and not forty-five minutes after Greg's eyes first fluttered open that morning, they were sitting in Nick's truck, the engine rumbling to life.

The ride was nice enough. They playfully argued over what music to play, though Nick finally gave up. With a roll of his eyes and a faked exasperated sigh, he handed the jack for the tape deck to Greg. Not a moment after, a characteristically eclectic mix was humming through the truck's speakers, and Nick sighed in content acceptance of his fate. In usual fashion, Greg's dancing (even car dancing) was... interesting, with coordinated if not strange movements wracking his torso and arms, swaying and bucking and flailing within his own little space of music-induced stupor. As time went on, though, he began to glance over at his driving partner, and noticed with a sinking feeling that Nick's smile had faded a little, that he had gone quiet... And while pretending to search for a specific song, Greg unplugged his iPod and replaced it with the other man's. Country, of course, spilled from the speakers, and at first, Nick's brow furrowed. "I didn't know y..." He looked down and caught a glimpse of Greg, holding his disconnected iPod in one hand, a sheepish grin on his face. "You didn't have to," he murmured, touched.  
"It's not so bad. You put up with my stuff, so." He shrugged and began to sway and headbob to the rhythm.

"Still, it was... sweet."

Greg felt his heart flutter, suddenly glad beyond all bounds that he had been able to please him with something so simple. "Any time," he murmured, his smile almost painful in its aching urgency.

"Let's make candy apples."

Greg had been obediently following Nick around the grocery store like a puppy for perhaps half an hour before he stood, stock still, in front of a basket of honeycrisp apples. The stand beside them held an assortment of fruit-enhancers- three kinds of dips, and two kinds of mix to make caramel or candy apples. "Please?"

It was all Nick could do not to burst out laughing. He could only think, _He's been such a /good/ boy today..._ This, of course, sent him into a fit of giggles that hehad to stifle with the back of his hand. The guy looked like a kid standing there, wide-eyed, almost shivering with excitement. Nick was sure, had Greg been a dog, he'd have a tiny little stump of a tail wagging madly, his entire rear swaying from side to side. This last image sent him over the edge, and he started to laugh, trying to quiet himself. Greg only stood there, cocking his head (somewhat like a confused dog), his gaze shifting sideways to the apples, then back to the laughing man before him.

"Y.. Yeah, sure," Nick finally managed, wiping an eye. "You're too much, man. Too much." Shaking his head fondly, he grabbed a produce bag and began to pick the best apples from the bin.

"I love candy apples," Greg defended, his voice small and a little hurt. "It's been forever since I've had one. I think the last time was when I went to a fair in college with a couple friends." He reminisced a little, but shook the memory away quickly. It would lead, he knew, to remembering his friend's hateful comments upon reading his diary.

_Fuckin' fag, you like guys? You wanna suck root? Christ, you're disgusting. Shoulda known you were a fruit._

Fruit.

Greg looked down at the apples, hoping with a vague, naive-feeling optimism, that he could rechristen the word 'fruit' with a new connotation by making these candy apples.

"So, what do you want for dinner, Greggo?" The nickname pulled a renewed smile to Nick's lips, and apparently, it had the same effect on Greg.

"Duuuh... I dunno. Maybe... OH!" His face lit up beneath the tinny glow of the flourescent lights overhead. "We should make carnival food. To go with the candy apples."

The thought swirled around in the brunet's mind for a minute, and his smile widened. "I can do that," he answered. "We'll need sausage and peppers. I've got onions, and we'll need some more frying oil. And hot dog rolls, or grinder rolls, whichever you want. We're doing fried dough and sausage grinders."

-

Nick thought vaguely as he stood in the kitchen, surrounded by a mess of gargantuan proportions, that this was the most fun he'd really had on a day off in quite a long time. Everything was made... lighter somehow, and more enjoyable, having Greg around. A car ride that was usually an annoyance had been a song and dance show, with Greg dancing in his peculiar way, singing along to only parts of the choruses of country songs he vaguely knew. A trip to the bank, normally a silent, solemn affair, was cheered when Greg complimented the desk clerk and struck up a conversation. Nick had seen that girl a million times before, but had never known or imagined she was a college student named Anneliese with a penchant for chocolate covered fruit. Grocery shopping became, if a slightly expensive trip, one full of "We should try this!" and "This looks interesting." Foods he had never given a glance to before, things he wouldn't have considered buying, had all tumbled into his cart. Hell, getting his emissions tested resulted in a dozen or so games of hangman that waffled between obscenely sophisticated vocabulary and the most childish examples that would come to mind. The vulgar ones had elicited soft giggles or snorts of disbelieving entertainment, and what was normally the longest half-hour he would spend felt like it passed in a minute flat. _This kid,_ he thought lovingly, _is a maniac renegade Energizer bunny._

He picked up their food, each plate heavy with sauce and cheese-laden dough and a thick, overstuffed sausage, onion and pepper grinder. The candy apples were sitting on a tray on top of the fridge, their glittering red coating drying. "Food's ready. Step right up, sir, right on up to the table, pitch 'til you win!" Nick mimed throwing the plate at Greg's face, which became a sheet of mock horror.

"Man, this smells DELICIOUS," he exclaimed, sliding into his seat as the plate descended before him. "Never would have pinned you as a cook, Nicky, but I'm glad."

Nick barely registered the flutter in his stomach, subconsciously passing it off as hunger. "Thanks," he murmured, only slightly aware that his cheeks were flushed. They sat to eat, and silence reigned as they each inhaled the meal. The silence was appreciative, not at all cold, and lasted until, after finishing his food and quaffing the rest of a root beer, Nick let out a belch. Greg snickered a little, eyeing the top of the fridge. "Hope you've still got room," he teased, nodding his head toward the apples.  
"You only know it, G." The older man patted his stomach affectionately. "It's nice to have an excuse to make a Texas-sized meal again."  
"Again? You _always_ make Texas-sized meals."  
"Yeah, but it's nice to have an excuse for once."

Greg tried to swallow his last big bite of fried dough before he was taken in peals of delighted laughter, which only led to a coughing fit. Smiling through little dry hacks, he giggled. "I only hope you don't make me snarf candy apple."

"Snarf?"

"Snarf... Laugh so hard, food comes out your nose. Or liquid. Orange soda is the worst." Greg affirmed this with a nod, then downed most of his drink, finally done coughing.  
"Snarf." Nick shook his head. "That's a new one." He rose to get the apples and gave a soft grunt as he stretched. Greg was made almost painfully aware, all of a sudden, of his lean, toned figure beneath his clothes. As he stretched up and back, his shirt rose above the waist of his jeans, and he caught a glimpse of dark hair running in a trail down Nick's carved stomach, disappearing behind a button. His throat seemed to close up and he had to tear his eyes away, feeling a twinge just below his stomach, a tightening in his abdomen... _Nooooonononono. Not now,_ he thought. _Fantasize later. Food now, then movie, bed, fantasize._ He punctuated the thought with a nod, which he was glad Nick was turned away and didn't see.  
'CANDY APPLES!" he cried, snatching one off the waxed paper even before Nick had set the tray down. "Yeesh, Greg. Easy, boy. Inhale the air, eat the food."  
Already with a mouthful of gooey red stuff and crunchy apple, Greg tried to give a closed-lipped smile.  
"You're already a mess, you know."

Greg nodded.  
"Covered in sugar."  
Another nod.  
"You're impossible."  
Another nod, which Nick only responded to by taking an enormous hunk out of his apple. The sound the bite made in the crisp flesh of the fruit was like a shotgun blast, and the two once again set into a silent eating fest, the quiet only broken by the crisp crunch of the apples.

Sitting at the table, dishwasher humming along, kitchen (and Greg's previously sticky, red face) finally clean, the two men sighed in unison and smiled. Nick patted his stomach again and sat up a little straighter. "You up for a horror film?"  
"I... Uh..." The blond had never been to good with scary movies, especially not since taking the job at the lab. "No slashers."

Nick smiled and nodded. "I see enough of that already. I was thinking something supernatural. I haven't had a chance to see either of the Paranormal Activities, and Archie keeps buggin' me to see them."  
There was something that Greg could handle. "You make fun of me when I hide under a blanket, I will kick your Texan ass all the way back to Dallas."  
"Scouts honor, I won't." The older man even held up a hand, a gesture that insisted he wasn't going to judge. "I swear on my Netflix account," he added, grinning.  
"Ass," Greg shot back, a helpless grin spreading across his own lips as he slid back his chair and stood with some effort. "I'm gonna go make my nest while you set it up, okay?"  
Nick shrugged, starting for the flatscreen in the living room. "Make it for two, lots of blankets. It's getting chilly out."

As Greg arranged the blankets on the couch, he couldn't help but replay those words. Make it for two. Two. For two.  
It wasn't but a few minutes before he was sitting, cocooned in his protective shell of fluffy warmth, and even still, he could hardly believe he was sharing the loveseat with Nick. Between their combined width and the bulk added by the blankets around each of them, they were fairly well packed in, their bodies exchanging heat. Greg tried to drown out the thoughts of _in the dark with Nick on the couch watching a movie in the dark just us really close on the couch under blankets just us in the dark with a scary movie_ with his growing unease. The style in which the movie was shot added to the knot in his stomach, but then again, so did his proximity to the larger man on his left. As the movie played and his anxiety increased, he found himself leaning closer and closer to Nick. Maybe 25 minutes from the end of the film, he found himself shaking, eyes wide, and as something jumped on the screen, Greg pressed his face into Nick's upper arm. Everything seemed to move in slow motion as Nick pulled away, then slid the arm around him.  
_He just put his arm around me. _  
The thought was so stark, he jumped again, and Nick pulled him closer. Greg sat, almost numb with shock (and fear. He would remember later to tell Archie that it had scared him shitless, but had been absolutely fantastic. Very effective.), his heart welling with adoration as his stomach churned with fright. The contradiction was one that Greg was entirely okay with, and as the movie came to its climax, Greg pressed his face to the side Nick's neck, almost terrified of his own actions more than those on the screen. Nick responded in a way that Greg knew he would not forget. The dark-haired man, pulled him closer still and, having already been curled over him, Greg slid cleanly over into Nick's lap.  
Nick made no attempt to move him, no intimation that he even wanted to move him.  
Greg stayed where he was, heart thumping.

Amazingly, he could feel, with his head pressed against Nick's chest, that his heart was, too.


End file.
